


New Scenes In Old Army

by gala_apples



Series: Shameless First Impressions [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Changing Room Sex, M/M, Season/Series 10, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24621055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: On Mickey's first day of work Paula doesn’t show up at the food court uninvited. Instead it’s Ian who crashes Old Army an hour before their lunch date.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Shameless First Impressions [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1724326
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	New Scenes In Old Army

**Author's Note:**

> Written for both 'yellow' for my shameless prompt table, and 'confined/caged' for seasonofkink.

Mickey feels like a jagoff when he walks into Old Army for orientation. It’s one of three legitimate jobs he’s ever had. There was the fast food thing after his first stint in juvie, security at Kash and Grab after his third, and this. Every other job’s been a con, a protection racket, or getting paid for helping maintain a front for a relative’s scam. And what every last paid opportunity has in common? None of them made him wear goddamn khaki shorts. 

Half the morning is dedicated to orientation. There are shitty DVDs to watch, and a store tour. Despite being used as a shoplifting deterrent, they still want him to know how to fold clothes properly and how to use the price gun. Ex cons don’t get to do cash. It’s dumb, like being told not to would stop him if he wanted to steal. But he’ll play nice for these idiots because he’s on probation and there are a million and one Milkovich stories about what happens when you don’t play nice.

He’s expecting to meet up with Ian in the food court on his lunch break so it comes as a surprise to see that distinctive red hair at one of the racks. It’s a bit fuckin’ painful to greet him in this stupid ass uniform, but it’s not like the same thing wasn’t going to happen an hour from now. Ian’s seen each him in worse; dirty prison jumpsuits while he was out and free, shot in the ass and screaming, dressed in old lady floral to cross the border. He’s not gonna throw himself over the second floor railing because Ian’s seeing him in a tucked in pink polo shirt.

“Hey. What’s up? My lunch isn’t for like forty five minutes yet.” He touches Ian’s hip for a minute before backing off. He doesn’t give a shit about PDA now, the fuckin’ mall is no risk at all compared to crossing his dad, or prison, but he doesn’t want his P.O. on his ass if he gets reported for flirting instead of working.

“Doesn’t matter. I wasn’t hungry yet anyway. I just wanted to see you before I go grocery shopping. You go back to work, I’m going to keep browsing.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows skeptically. Ian’s never worn douchenugget ‘Slim Ultimate Built-In Flex Shorts’ like the sign proclaims in his fucking life. He had that all army all the time phase, and the twink at work shit, but other than that it’s been jeans and t-shirts like a normal person from the South Side.

Ian reaches out and cups his side with a quick smile. “Go on, go prowl for shoplifters. I’ll be here.”

Must be that he’s wasting his time. Old Army’s just as good a place to waste twenty minutes as looking through gag gifts at Spencers, or smelling different shit at one of the soap stores. Mickey leaves Ian to it, goes back to slowly walking the store. It’s boring, but it’s better than KFC was. At least he doesn’t smell like grease and toilet bowl cleaner.

Five minutes after Ian promises to let him work, he’s approaching Mickey. “I’d like to try these on. Show me where your changing rooms are? I’ve never been in an Old Army before.”

Mickey eyes the bundle of fabric tucked under Ian’s arm, but in the end leads him to the stalls at the back of the store. He doesn’t understand what Ian’s goal is, but he’s sure he’ll find out soon. It’s not like he’s going to try shoplifting expecting Mickey to give him a break, Ian wouldn’t screw him like that.

Two minutes later Ian’s calling out, “hey Mick, you still there? I need an opinion.”

Of course he’s still there. Like he’d leave the area when Ian’s being suspicious. “Yeah, I’m here.”

The door swings open and Mickey nearly swallows his tongue. Ian’s shirtless, only wearing yellow shorts. Ian’s wearing the shortest, tiniest shorts Mickey’s seen outside the Fairy Tail. They must be girls cut; low at the waist, high on the thigh, tiny pockets. It’s obscene and deeply hot.

Much as Mickey’d like to stand around and ogle, it’s a truly bad idea. Before he can think better of it Mickey steps closer to Ian, so that when he slams the door to shield Ian from the public he’s inside the changing stall. There’s barely enough room for the both of them. Mickey could reach out and touch the left and right mirrored walls at the same time. Better to be enclosed than his boyfriend be out for everyone to see though.

Ian steps towards him immediately. He tucks his fingers into Mickey’s belt and tugs him until they’re chest to chest, mouth to mouth. Cock to cock too, Mickey can feel how hard Ian already is against him.

Shit like this, Mickey has to walk a careful and very observant line. Fucking at work could be hypersexual, or it could just be boyfriend-in-his-twenties horniness. Ian’s definitely taking his pills, but they could be losing their efficacy. Prolonged stress alters brain chemistry, and Ian went from relative stability and routine in prison to Paula fucking up his entire career. His entire life, if you consider the coke laced piss dangling over his head like the sword of Damocles. Mickey doesn’t know how that book or whatever ends. He only knows about it because it was in Rocky Horror, which Sandy made him watch as a kid, the two queer Milkoviches hiding in a house they’d B&Eed, watching shit Terry’d crush their larynx for. He does know that Ian will get through it. Most P.O.s are jerks, but they only have so much energy to spread around. It’s just getting Ian through this period until she fucks the hell off to the next project. Is this period going to have the added complication of a manic episode? Well, Ian’s half naked in a changing stall, but there haven’t been other signs yet. No get rich quick schemes. No insomnia. No boost in religious ideals. Just lots of sex as they both celebrate actual real lube. Two nights ago they bought all five of the Wet flavours the CVS had in stock for a rimming taste test. It was awesome. 

It’s probably not mania. It doesn’t matter if it is, in a way. Ian hates being coddled through his highs, utterly ignores care through his lows. Mickey knows if he reacts a certain way it’ll only make things worse. Bad enough and they’re breaking up again. Mickey did not put his life on the line with a cartel to be broken up with because he’s being too smothering during a flare of mental illness. He’s also not starting a fight accusing Ian of it without much more proof, lest the ‘not everything is about bipolar’ argument start again. So Mickey does the smartest thing he can. He puts a mental bookmark on this action, in case he needs to cite it in the future, and keeps deeply kissing his boyfriend.

Mickey pulls his mouth off Ian’s. He doesn’t move either of the hands curved around his boyfriend’s barely clothed ass. Ian’s not wearing underwear, Mickey doesn’t need to look down at his pile of home clothes to know that. “You gonna be quiet, Firecrotch? If we’re gonna do this, we gotta be quick and quiet.”

“Put your fingers in my pocket.” If Mickey didn’t already know Ian’s in girl shorts he fuckin’ does now. The pockets are shallow and useless, like Mandy always complained when she was supposed to be a drug runner and all the shit didn’t fit in her jeans. It’s easy to feel and fish out the individual packet of lube. 

“Get yourself ready, I need to decide if I want these.”

Ian turns back to the mirror, faux dismissive. He starts rocking his hips from side to side like that’ll somehow change the entire look. Mickey could demand attention. Shove the fucker into the mirror and grab his cock, bite his neck, _something_. But sometimes this pretend shit is fun. It gives him the chance to show a little fuckin’ flare.

Mickey kicks off his sneakers, loosens the leather of his belt so he can drop and step out of his uniform shorts and lifts a foot onto the built in change bench. It’s good access to his ass, and more importantly keeps him in the background of the mirror Ian’s looking in. He rips open the packet enough to get the lube spilling over his fingers, then lets it flutter to the bench as he moves his hand to his ass. Call it a personal quirk, but Mickey always starts with his middle finger. It feels like it has the most curl to it to press into his prostate the quickest, and he likes the way the rest of his wet hand feels on either side of his crack, forcing his cheeks apart.

Mickey makes short work of stretching himself wide enough for Ian’s cock. He’s never asked for much in the way of prep, the inner burn as intoxicating as split knuckles or a black eye. Bottoming’s never made him the bitch, he and Sandy figured that shit out early. Taking the pain of someone scraping inside of you and turning it into something to enjoy, to feed on? Yeah, eating pain for breakfast makes him the most Milkovich of his entire fuckin’ family.

When he’s ready, he pops out his fingers and swivels to be chest to back with Ian, the bigger spoon. There’s so little space in the stall that Mickey doesn’t even need to take a step, just twist ninety degrees. He snakes his arm under Ian’s and grabs him by the chest. If he grabs him by the hip he’s going to stain the shorts, and Mickey’s not damaging merchandise he has no intention of buying on his first fuckin’ day. He already had to spend half the day’s earnings on the fucking uniform.

Mickey barely has the chance to tweek Ian’s nipple before he’s being flipped around. It’s not overpowering him, because that implies Mickey couldn’t fuckin’ take him down if he needed to. They both spent the same amount of time in the yard. Mickey doesn’t fight Ian because he doesn’t want to. He goes with the motion, happy as a pig in shit to be chest and cheekbone against the mirror. Ian’s got a knee pinning the back of his leg, and Mickey shudders as Ian pushes his fingers inside him. He tries to buck, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s really not that much space in here. It’s the poor man’s Mile High Club. Mickey might never be in an airplane bathroom but he can still be compacted and practically melding with his boyfriend in this stall. 

After reaffirming his ability to finger Mickey until he simultaneously wants to come and kick the shit out of him for taking so long, Ian rearranges them once more. The bench is a little too low to be bent over like it’s the edge of a bed, but Mickey still has to bend to brace himself against the wall opposite the door. Ian likes how he looks bent over, as compared to laying down or riding him. Mickey’s perfectly fuckin’ delighted to give the man what he wants.

“Yeah, I just don’t know about these. What’s your opinion?” Ian asks the question as he’s sinking his cock deep into Mickey. Mickey’s fingers attempt to curl on the particle board wall, bending his first knuckles back hard. Fuck, he could get fucked until the end of time. Works the hell out for him that Ian’s a uber-top.

As Ian starts pounding him it’s all he can do to not moan loudly enough to attract another employee. This is such a dumb fucking risk, it’ll completely fuck over his probation if his manager catches him, and if Ian stopped right now Mickey’d break a beer bottle in his face. It makes him feel young again, like fucking under the bleachers before everything went crazy with Svetlana and the army and the bipolar diagnosis. The metal zipper of the stupid girlshorts scratches against Mickey’s ass with each thrust, adding an extra little bite to this all. It’s so fucking good. Terry can fucking blow his brains out for all Mickey cares, what he has with Ian is a million times better than anything he ever thought he’d get.

“Come on. What’s your opinion? Should I buy them? Yay or nay? Hot or not?”

“Real fuckin’ good,” Mickey grits out. Ian’s such a goddamn bastard, only a bit of a pant in his voice revealing he’s anything but calm.

He’s going to have bruises on his legs where the edge of the bench seat is digging into flesh. Each thrust of Ian’s is a new jam against the hard, inch thick edge. It’s gonna mark like a fuckin’ caning. Thank fuck the stalls are built well enough that there’s no creaking noises, because Mickey doesn’t know if he’d be able to make himself make Ian stop.

As Mickey comes he scrabbles for purchase, some way to contain his reaction. He ends up reaching up and to the left, holding onto the metal clothes hooks drilled into each wall. He spills onto the bench and bites his lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Ian keeps using him for thirty seconds, a minute, Mickey doesn’t time it, just quakes as his oversensitive body doesn’t get a moment of a break. Not until Ian’s sucking on the shell of his ear and filling the condom.

There’s not a lot of room to maneuver, but they’ve had a ton of practice in rapid redressing, both with each other and others. Ian ties off the condom and shoves it into the pocket of his hoodie. Easier for him to get rid of it passing by a trashcan leaving the mall than Mickey trying to dump it secretly in the can beside the cash register. Mickey pulls off a sock and wipes them up with it. He can finish his shift without socks. Better that than going commando, or wiping it on any other article of clothing. An obviously stained walk of shame will help no one right now.

“You have to buy those fucking shorts,” Mickey tells him.

“Why? You wanna see me in them again?” Ian gloats, clearly considering himself as sexy now as he was in his go go shorts Fairy Tail days. Ask Mickey, he’s even hotter now, now that Ian’s all his. Plus, tweaked out can get annoying. Mickey likes few-night drug binges, not months long near addictions.

“No, dumbass. They’re fucking smeared with it because you didn’t take them off.” Mickey snaps. 

“They’re like thirty fucking dollars,” Ian complains.

“Yeah, well, get no name brand shampoo, I guess,” Mickey answers, double checking that they’re both clear before unlocking the stall door. “Scrimp, bitch.”

“Right. ‘K, I’m going to go check out that baby store on the first floor, see if I can find anything for Fred that won’t completely fuck my budget. Be back in twenty minutes?”

“Should be my lunch by then,” Mickey confirms.

Ian leans down for a sweet last kiss, Mickey angling his head up so he doesn’t have to go on his tiptoes. Ian heads for the cash desk then. Mickey lets him go, instead scooping up everything hanging on the return rack so he can start delivering all the pieces to their proper display stands. He’ll be back for the bin of articles that didn’t come with hangers in a few, see if the obvious scent of their used stall has dissipated yet. It’ll be good to keep busy. The more his manager sees Mickey do on his first day the less Andy will have to report for his P.O.’s first check in.


End file.
